I just turned 36 years old. And even though 35 is supposed to be more of a psychological milestone, 36 has hit me harder because that is the age my mom was when she passed away. As a young teenager at the time, I remember thinking that 36, while young, also meant that my mom had a chance to live her life. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Like her, I now have four kids by the time I am 36 years old and so much of my time is consumed by them, which is not a complaint, but the reality of raising a family. But at 36 now, there is still so much I want to do in life. At 36, I don’t know that anyone has it all figured out, but 36 is old enough to be off to a good start in life. And that is where I think I am – a good start. I have a wonderful wife, great daughters, a house and work and an awesome extended family and support network.
My mom, too, was off to a good start. But disease took her time and life away at too young of an age. It’s tragic, and now, 21 years after the event, having lived my life much longer without her than with her, the most I can do is hope that the extra life I have been given beyond what she had makes her proud, and is one day worth dying for, where I can again see my mom and thank her for the light she has been in my life, past and present.